


'Til It Was Near Morning

by rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)



Series: Ring Like Silver, Ring Like Gold [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Feastday, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maric visits Loghain early on Feastday mornings, stealing a moment that can be solely for the two of them - and anything they want to make of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Til It Was Near Morning

**Author's Note:**

> "the way you held me so tight / all through the night / 'til it was near morning..." - Love, Love, Love; Of Monsters and Men

When Anora was young, she often kicked off Loghain’s Feastday by bursting into his room at a completely unbearable hour of the morning, eager to open her gifts and carry out a few tricks she’d been planning. This was something he’d missed when he left almost permanently for Denerim, and something he was grateful to have back for even a year when she began to share his schedule. It made the dark hole in his life left by Celia’s death just that little bit brighter, and, he thought, it gave Anora no small measure of comfort either. Spending a few minutes in bed with his little girl burrowed under the blankets, only able to lay quietly for a short time before she was bounding up again and prodding him awake, made the entire holiday that much more tolerable.

She was twelve now, however, considerably too old to be anything more than politely interested in festivities like this. Had been for a year or two, in fact. Feastday was a babe’s holiday, and the disconnect he felt to it probably rested in the fact that he never got a chance to be a boy. Not truly. Not the way the children that had been terrorizing the palace for the past few days did.

In any case, being awoken before dawn by the creaking of his door was a considerable surprise. Opening an eye, Loghain peered blearily into the darkness, not sure whether his mind was playing tricks. Everything was still, and he was loath to sit up and look around, for the chill he could already feel biting at his exposed nose.

The distinct sound of footfall answered his suspicions. Closing his eyes again, he shifted enough under the blankets so that there would be room on his bed for Anora to sit. “I thought you might be too old for this,” he said, coughing a little against the rasp of disuse in his voice.

His second surprise came when a weight far too heavy to be his daughter settled into the bed, wriggling its way underneath his sheets and pressing cold appendages into his back. Instinct insisted he jump up and reach for his sword, never far enough that he couldn’t survive an ambush attack, but he knew the heavy sigh that ghosted warm breath through his sleep shirt. He also knew the arm that wound its way around him, frigid fingers shocking him as they touched exposed skin at his stomach.

Maric’s forehead touched one of his shoulder blades, his nose mussing up Loghain’s shirt as he fairly nuzzled into him. “You’re certainly too old for this,” Loghain said, sighing back. “Should you be here?”

Normally, Maric was annoyed with Loghain’s constant attempts to remind them of their imaginary respectability. Loghain often had to shove Maric off, refusing his attentions until the dead of night or when they could be sure there was no one to see them. This morning, he seemed much more demure than usual. Rather than fussing, he tucked his arm in a little tighter. “There’s no one around,” he said quietly, “it’s still some time before morning. I locked the door.”

Loghain must not have heard it. Finally ready to concede, he relaxed into Maric’s touch. Sleep still hung at the edge of his consciousness, although it would be too dangerous to doze off now. Imagine waking up hours later, after someone had noticed his absence, and being found in bed with the king. A few people would hardly be shocked, he thought with some irritation, but it would be better to avoid the situation altogether. There was a reason they kept this quiet.

Maric didn’t seem to be falling asleep, either. He held remarkably still, only the steady puff of air from his nostrils letting Loghain know that he so much as breathed. There was something in it he recognized from years of being intimate with Maric’s moods, and from years with a man he barely recognized from the personable, jabbering boy he’d led through the Wilds.

“Something upset you.” It wasn’t a question. Maric recognized it as such, he knew, but the man ignored him a while longer in favor of sulking into his back. Loghain was beginning to wonder if threatening to roll over onto him would make him talk when he sighed again, perhaps a little wetly this time.

“Eamon isn’t bringing Alistair for the holiday.”

Loghain felt himself tense, the lines of his shoulders moving against Maric’s face. They were both aware talk of the boy made Loghain uncomfortable, for several reasons, but… If Maric was upset enough to come to him, it would be cruel to turn him away. For a mad moment, he considered taking one of his hands, the way he sometimes did for Celia when she had wrapped herself around his back, but the thought was banished quickly. That wasn’t who he was. Not with Maric. It might even make him feel worse, that false comfort. Despite all appearances to the contrary, Maric despised being coddled.

“You knew that was a possibility,” Loghain said carefully. “Especially this late.”

“I did,” Maric replied, sounding pitiful even muffled into his shirt. “But I hoped… it was stupid. I know.”

“When did you get the missive?”

“Yesterday, actually. Everything was so busy; I had them set it on my desk to look at later. I didn’t get to it until a few minutes ago.” Because he couldn’t sleep, he didn’t say. Loghain heard it, regardless. “I think he thinks he’s protecting me,” Maric added bitterly. “Harder to go back on my word when Alistair is kept out of sight and out of my thoughts.”

Eamon was probably right, at least in that respect. Maric knew Loghain supported keeping Alistair away from court, as well, not out of respect for the Grey Warden’s wishes but for the sanctity of Maric’s court. It was something they had argued about many times, his king’s soft heart aching fit to burst for the son he wasn’t allowed to have. Luckily, he didn’t seem to want to provoke a confrontation this morning. Judging by the way that he was clinging like a limpet, he only wanted someone to commiserate with. In an ideal world, he’d have somebody better to go to than Loghain, who was completely aware of his own short temper and disinclination for unfettered emotional reactions. As it was, they would both have to make do.

Pushing an elbow gently behind him, he waited for Maric to disentangle and withdraw a bit before turning onto his back. “He’s protecting the boy as well, you know,” he said, looking over at Maric for the first time that morning. He looked disheveled, but likely from tossing and turning, not from sleep. There were bruised rings underneath his eyes, and a plaintive sadness written so clear across his face, it made Loghain’s heart jitter uncomfortably in his chest.

“I know,” Maric said. His mouth twitched in a weak attempt at a smile. “I’d gotten him a present and everything. Suppose I’ll have to send it, although it will be late now.”

“He’s four. He won’t know the difference of a few days.” Maric raised an eyebrow at him, perhaps not realizing he would remember Alistair’s age. It wasn’t so surprising. Maric knew, practically kept a count in his mind day by day, so Loghain knew it, too.

Unable to look at his sorrowful expression any longer, Loghain stared up at the ceiling, slowly growing lighter either from the oncoming day or from his eyes adjusting in the blackness. “You bought him a present?” he asked, a little surprised.

Maric hummed. He was still close enough that Loghain could feel the heat of his body, but they were no longer touching. “Toys,” he clarified. “A couple, probably too many, but I’m not… sure what he likes. A play sword, a wooden horse, the like. There was a doll I saw in the market, done up in robes that sort of looked like…” His voice trailed off, almost as though he were too embarrassed to continue. When Loghain turned to glance at him again, he did almost look a little sheepish. It was better than the abject misery he’d seen a minute before. “Anyway. If there are too many, Eamon can give them at his discretion. He needn’t be spoiled.”

“Not like you spoil everyone else’s children.” Maric chuckled, the reaction Loghain had been hoping for. It wasn’t a joke, really, not when he considered the enormous pile of presents he’d helped lay out for all the visiting nobility’s families the night before. There would be quite the outcry when everyone awoke, and by noon, he was sure you wouldn’t be able to turn the corner without finding a small one making mischief or enjoying their new playthings.

“It’s Feastday,” Maric said by way of explanation, “and I’m the king of Ferelden. The sovereigns sitting around in our coffers have to be good for something.”

“So you say ridiculous toys that only make noise or will be broken before the day is out are what we should be spending the treasury on.”

“So I say.” Reaching out, Maric tucked himself against Loghain’s shoulder and snaked a hand underneath his shirt, tracing bare skin idly with his fingers. “Armies and buildings and all that other nonsense aren’t anywhere near as important.”

It was Loghain’s turn to hum, gently resting a hand in Maric’s hair and leaning his head against that hand. Thankfully, if he were any judge, Maric’s melancholy was mostly broken. Chances were, he would spend most of the day in a bit of a slump, eyes sad again when he thought no one was paying attention, but at least now he would be able to keep up appearances. The nation didn’t need to know about Maric’s second son, even from hints hidden in his despondency.

They were quiet for a time, just skirting the edge of going back to sleep and still except for Maric’s slightly roving fingers. Loghain half-expected him to play his usual tricks, slowly trailing his hand down to slip into his breeches or touching his lips to the base of his neck in an attempt to lure him out of complacency, but that never happened. Instead, he seemed content simply to share Loghain’s warmth. It was rare they got the chance to do anything other than fumble behind closed doors, frantically digging at each other out of desperation. This, he thought almost reluctantly, was pleasant.

Yawning, Maric pushed his chest into Loghain’s side, seeking either more heat or the comfort of another body along his. “Have I said ‘Happy Feastday’ yet?” he murmured, smoothing a thumb in the ridges of Loghain’s stomach.

“No,” Loghain said, fighting the urge to pull away from the touch. It skittered up his body, just on the wrong side of ticklish and light enough that he was sure Maric did it on purpose. He was more liable to shove his king off than respond with humor, however, and they both knew it. For Maric, it was just a game to see how long Loghain’s patience would last.

“Happy Feastday, then.” Even as he pressed a kiss to Loghain’s chest, barely a hint of pressure through the shirt, Maric’s hand snaked down to his hip and scraped lightly into his side. Closing his eyes, Loghain began a mental countdown to when he would use the hand he’d left in Maric’s hair to swat him in the head.

“If you don’t stop that, I’ll throw you out,” he said. He didn’t have to try to sound like he meant it.

Chuckling, Maric pulled his arm out of Loghain’s shirt and threw it over him, slung low on his hips. “And many happy returns to you, as well, your lordship.”

 

* * *

 

It became a standard part of Feastday, the same as hosting mind-numbing feasts and checking around each door to make sure one of the noble children hadn’t rigged a prank that would leave him dripping wet, or covered in feathers (or once, both). Each year, hours before anyone else would be awake or think to look for them, Maric would slip into his room and stay until the sun came up. They never discussed it, or coordinated each meeting. Instead, it simply fell into place the way it needed to. Loghain’s room seemed the most sensible place, as very few would ever dream of calling for him before morning unless it was a dire emergency. Although there were other times they sought each other out, and the rare occasion when one or the other stayed nearly the entire night, Feastday remained an unspoken arrangement. It gave them both a chance for peace before the chaos of the holiday, and more than once, it was the only chance they’d had to be in private together for some time.

That was so one morning, three years after the first time Maric had crept into his bed and tormented him with frigid fingers in his sides and on his back. Loghain had made a habit of waking even before Maric arrived, partly as security against the near unthinkable chance that someone unexpected came in, but this time the sound of his lock sliding home shook him from a deep sleep. Groaning against the unfairness of existing this early in the morning, he rolled on his back expectantly. The hand he soon felt against one of his own wasn’t cold, but warm, almost burning. As soon as Maric joined him under the blankets it would be like an oven – but instead of curling against him, he climbed atop the bed and threw his legs over Loghain’s waist.

Slowly, Loghain peeled his eyes open to glare down in confusion at the weight on his hips. His gaze traveled upward to take in Maric’s bare and trembling chest, the day old scruff of a fledgling beard on his chin, and the look in his eyes that usually meant trouble. “What are you doing?” he grumbled, even if the answer was painfully obvious. As though trying to drive the uselessness of the question home, Maric rolled his hips.

“It’s been ages,” he whispered, leaning down to plant his hands near Loghain’s shoulders. Even through the heavy layers separating them, Loghain felt the shifting of his body and a thrill ran up his spine. “If I had to wait any longer I would have lost my senses.”

“You lost those long ago,” Loghain said, parrying on instinct. His breath slipped straight out of him as Maric descended to put his lips on Loghain’s neck.

“Never had them, I think.” Maric punctuated himself with a scrape of his teeth downward, kissing open-mouthed against the skin between throat and collarbone. Unthinking, Loghain fisted a hand into his hair, pulling only when Maric lingered too long or bit too hard. They couldn’t leave bruises, not today, when they couldn’t be covered in plate and leather. Through it all, Maric kept up a steady back and forth with his hips, less purposeful and more intended to keep whatever fire he had built stoked. When his lips finally crested over the point of Loghain’s chin, teeth taking his bottom lip and tugging, Loghain finally lost his patience and began pushing at the blankets. Whether they kicked them out of the way or brought Maric under them, he didn’t care; all that mattered was that he felt that sliding pressure where he wanted it, without hindrance from his damned sheets.

“Help me,” he said against Maric’s mouth, bucking upwards to make him move. Maric moaned instead, cupping his jaw.

“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” he breathed, touching his nose to Loghain’s. “Ever since you rode off to Amaranthine to see Howe, the way you looked at me before you left – Maker’s breath, you talk about keeping this a secret and then you do that…”

He remembered that, too, the morning he set off with a short, backwards look at his king, not quite thinking of missing him but something along those lines. While in attendance to whatever miniscule details Howe had wanted him for – he couldn’t quite remember now, with a mouth pressed insistently against his – thoughts of Maric had largely been infrequent. Even so, he had noticed on his return that Maric seemed… distracted. If he had known, he might have made an effort to get them alone much sooner.

“Get rid of these, then,” Loghain said, pulling away from Maric to shove ineffectively at the blankets again, “and have me.”

Maric moaned again, dropping his head to Loghain’s shoulder, obviously loath to withdraw even for a heartbeat. When Loghain lay still, refusing to acknowledge even the way his tongue swirled down his chest and brushed tantalizingly close to the edge of his shirt, Maric finally lifted his hips and helped drag the myriad coverings out from under him. “Won’t you be cold?” he asked, ignoring the hungry look in Loghain’s eye and hovering over him on his knees.

“No.” His hands came heavy over Maric’s hips, thumbs crushing against bone as he tried to drag him back down onto his lap. Shaking his head, Maric looped his own hands around Loghain’s neck. He grunted in frustration, but let himself be urged upward into a sitting position. The bulge in Maric’s breeches was unmistakable, as his must have been, if he troubled to look, but Maric seemed in no hurry to return to his steady rocking.

“Let me,” he started. He left the sentence unfinished and hanging in the air, trailing his hands down Loghain’s back to grasp his shirt and drag it over his head. It joined Maric’s on the floor, which he could see now – a good thing, that; it meant he hadn’t come down the hall half-naked and aching to be touched, where he could have been seen by anyone. Bending his head, Maric fulfilled his earlier promise and latched his mouth to Loghain’s chest.

A jolt shocked through Loghain’s body at the contact, rippling outward from the top of his spine. Reaching blindly, fighting through the haze of arousal that clouded his mind as he felt a tongue slide over his nipple, he groped to unlace Maric’s breeches. He knew he was on target when he felt solid warmth under thin cloth. Hips stuttered into his hands, and Maric gasped as he flattened his hand and pressed.

“Maker,” he breathed, digging blunt nails into his thighs. Loghain hushed him as he moved toward the laces and pulled them open as quickly and efficiently as he could. If Maric already sounded like that, there wasn’t much chance of this lasting very long.

The breeches wouldn’t come down. They were too tight, he was sure, or his legs were too far spread apart – in any case, they refused to budge past an inch. “Take these off,” Loghain growled, fairly yanking at them. Lifting his head, Maric kissed him again, his hands joining Loghain’s in the struggle. Finally, with a groan, Maric leaned away and scrambled backwards off the bed, hopping in a circle to peel them off. Luckily, they were far beyond any sense of decorum. Besides, Loghain was almost too busy working his own laces now to think of it, finding his fingers thick and unwieldy.

“Here.” Maric climbed back onto the bed, brushed his hands aside, and handled it instead, tugging the breeches in short jerks in order to work them all the way off. Those wound up on the floor, too.

For a second that felt like a lifetime, they paused to breathe, taking each other in. Loghain thought of the wrinkles already creasing his skin, the discolorations from burns and scars that left him very different from the man he was even twenty years ago. Maric had wrinkles, too, but the dignified kind, ones that made him look kinder and wiser. The wiser part was misleading, certainly, but there was no denying that in comparison, Loghain was nothing to look at.

Still, Maric’s cock was more than half-hard, just from what they had done and from looking at him now. More importantly, Maric’s eyes met his with an intensity that almost made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t heat, although desire was evident in more places than one – it was warmth, the kind you could drown in if you weren’t careful.

He hadn’t been careful in years. Years of poor influence on the part of his king made Loghain certain that caution was lost to him completely.

Throwing a leg over Loghain’s again, slow and purposeful, Maric moved up his body in a crawl. He stopped when he hovered just above Loghain’s lap, smiling beatifically down as he laced his fingers through his hair. “What do you want?” he asked, stroking his temple with a thumb. Loghain closed his eyes against the sensation, nearly overwhelmed by the sudden switch from desperate fumbling to lovemaking – if that was what it could be called.

He wasn’t sure how to put it into words at first, what he wanted. Every nerve in his body clamored for something different, for things Maric couldn’t give, for things he would never ask. Finally, he touched his forehead to where Maric’s heart lay beneath the skin.

“Have me,” he said again, and he meant it.

Hands slid along his scalp, scratching in a reassuring sort of way. No longer in any hurry, Loghain stayed where he was and breathed deeply. He could have pretended they were anywhere else, anyone else, able to share more than a quick fuck before going back to pretending for the sake of the court. It was tempting, the idea of losing himself in selfishness – but that diminished it, somehow. This was who they were, and this was theirs, and pretending would be akin to an insult.

“We don’t have much time,” Maric observed, still threading fingers into his hair and pressing down along his neck. It wasn’t dissuasion. He knew better than to ask if Loghain was sure, or push for details about what exactly was wanted. It was what it sounded like: a statement of the obvious. They couldn’t waste a whole morning on messing about.

“Luckily,” Loghain said, unable to stop himself, “you don’t ever last very long.”

He expected a cuff upside the head, or at least a swift denial. Instead, Maric hummed, dropped, and leaned forward. In one moment, Loghain lost the chest he’d been anchored against and felt the sudden violence of a cock against his. He would have pitched forward if not for the body there to catch him.

“I hope,” Maric said, raising his voice to be heard over Loghain’s groans, “you were giving yourself a compliment.” Perched high on Loghain’s lap, he bent and touched his lips to a fluttering pulse point in a surprisingly chaste kiss. “Otherwise you might hurt my feelings.”

“Not so loud.” Loghain interrupted himself with a gasp, arching his back. Maric was finally regaining the rhythm he’d had before they stopped to disrobe, oscillating with such purpose and pleasure, the aching slowness barely mattered. Loghain considered bringing a hand up from its death throttle on the mattress to encircle them both, but the uninhibited slide of his own cock against a hard stomach made him forget again.

“I have no fear of losing control. I’m more worried about you.” The pant edging Maric’s voice robbed him of some bravado, but he did sound remarkably unaffected for the eager mess he’d been not long before. If not for the hot press at his hips, the kisses steadily growing sloppier at his throat, he might have been mistaken for losing interest. Loghain knew him better than that. Despite appearances, Maric did fairly well at maintaining a cool head under mounting pressure. The calmer he seemed, the more dangerous he could be, and in this case, the less control he really had.

Prying one hand from the sheets, Loghain took firm hold of Maric’s ass and pulled him forward so that there was no space between them. Maric shuddered and dug his teeth into Loghain’s shoulder, hips still making aborted thrusts that traveled nowhere but up.

“There’s not enough time,” he said again, lifting his head and soothing the mark he’d almost certainly left behind with a caress. “Not enough time for everything…”

“Later,” Loghain huffed. He realized dully that he was making a promise he might not be able to keep, at least not in the near future, but very little mattered when Maric was grinding against him like a man possessed. “Provided you don’t – don’t wait weeks to tell me, again.”

“We were both busy.” With a gentle push, Maric encouraged Loghain to lay back onto the mattress. He moaned at the loss of contact against his chest, his neck, his mouth, and then moaned again when Maric gave a last stuttering thrust and clambered off him. “Same place?”

“Where else would it be?” Throwing a hand over his eyes, Loghain listened to the poorly muffled sounds of Maric digging through his cabinets, cutting off a loud curse when a bottle clattered to the floor. They were complete fools, both of them, behaving like this. He considered the odds of their being discovered, disappointed that his erection did not flag even a hair at the thought, until the silence of the room caught his attention.

Maric stood at the foot of the bed, a small container of balm in his hand that Loghain kept specifically for their purpose. It was hardly used, he knew, as they so rarely risked a bed and had to make use of other means elsewhere. Most importantly, Maric beamed at him, content just to observe for a moment. The look on his face was an old one, directed in its own way to many people, but that hardly diminished it. Now, he meant it for Loghain.

“Are you all right, like this?” he asked, unscrewing the lid and tossing it onto the bed. Loghain considered shifting, rising up on his hands and knees, anything, but something stopped him from suggesting it. Grabbing a pillow to slide under his hips, too aware of creaking joints, he fixed Maric with a look he hoped wasn’t as steely as it felt.

“Come on.”

Despite his apparent haste, Maric refused to put the balm to use until he settled down along Loghain’s body, hand poised at Loghain’s entrance. Pressing a soft kiss to his chest, Maric closed his eyes and easily slid a slick finger up and inside. The noise Loghain made at the near-foreign intrusion was somewhere in the midway between a grunt and a keen. It might have been embarrassing, if Maric hadn’t echoed it almost immediately.

He never truly seemed to remember how it felt, being stretched the way he was now, the only points of contact a finger and lips. Typically, Maric wanted to be filled, when they could, pinned against a wall and driven hard in the absence of true privacy or time. That suited both of them fine, but he enjoyed this as well. It was one of a myriad of options open to them. They needn’t always play to their strengths.

Loghain panted as Maric added a second finger, pressing his forehead against Loghain’s side and sighing. Thinking of it as ‘strengths’ or ‘weaknesses’ was a disservice to them both, anyhow. It had little to do with skill, as evidenced by the artful way he added a third finger on an inward push and _curved_ as he went. The broken sounds that occasionally fell from Loghain’s mouth couldn’t have escaped Maric’s attention, but he didn’t respond until Loghain began shifting his hips restlessly.

“Hold on,” Maric murmured, his mouth whispering against skin, “hold on, let’s be sure, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’ve done enough,” Loghain snapped. His chest heaved, heart pounding fit to burst. He could feel the heat from Maric’s cock down on his leg, not touching, but close enough that if he jerked, they might brush.  When he tried, he was pleased to find Maric still ready, and more than a little responsive. “Stop wasting time.”

Maric complied, after another few moments. He rolled to his knees and slowly took his fingers from Loghain’s hole, lips quirking as Loghain gasped shakily on the final withdrawal. “Maker’s _breath_ ,” he said, one hand flying down to clutch at Maric’s forearm. Humming some small reassurance, Maric hunted frantically in the blankets for the balm he seemed to have lost. Loghain was ready to jump up and tear the room apart by the time he grabbed it, shaking the grip on his arm loose so he could use both hands to slather the stuff on his cock.

Finally, _finally_ , Maric wiped his hands off on the bed and planted them under Loghain’s arms. He leaned up slowly, cock resting in the cleft of Loghain’s ass and rubbing just enough to make the friction maddening. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Loghain felt he was being bent in half, back curving against the push of Maric’s thighs, but the discomfort was worth it when Maric kissed him. He answered against Maric’s mouth, “Andraste’s sake, man, fuck me.”

A last touch to his lips, a quick alignment, and a slow, steady push – and that was it. Maric throbbed inside him, not quite buried to the hilt, but close. It felt good, after the emptiness of losing his fingers, better than he thought it might after so long between bouts. He was ready, it was time, he wanted more – but Maric was still, a look of harrowed concentration on his face, his hair slipping over his shoulder like a curtain.

“Move, Maric,” Loghain growled, rolling his hips. Maric practically whined, his cock slipping deeper by an unbelievable, miniscule slide.

“In a minute, in a minute,” he babbled, panting feverishly as his legs trembled. “Give me a moment, or I’ll… Maker’s breath, Loghain, I’ll not be long this time.”

Swallowing all the ‘I told you so’s that came to mind, Loghain dropped his head back and shut his eyes tight. “Neither will I,” he said, gritting the words through clenched teeth. “It doesn’t matter. Just move.”

The first thrust left him gasping. It was barely more than a stutter, half a slide out, just a little further than he was before, but that was only a start. Before long, Maric’s pelvis pressed briefly against Loghain’s skin, his cock as far in as it would go. Maric nigh on sobbed with relief, words falling from his mouth as Loghain bit down on his own lip and listened. Most of it was unintelligible, noises that he knew they should be doing a better job of repressing. Sometimes, he heard things that sent his heart into his throat, words that had no place outside these trysts, endearments he would never use again. Loghain liked to hear them all, although he would never want to admit it. It reminded him of their youth, when Maric would prattle on endlessly as though every passing thought was of the utmost importance. The constant litany of praise was hardly discouraging, as well.

But it wasn’t quite enough. Meeting Maric’s hips with aborted thrusts of his own, he tried shifting his thighs so that they clung higher up on Maric’s waist. It helped, somewhat, but he still grunted in irritation. One of Maric’s hands flew instinctively to help hold him there. He gave up depth for the release of his other hand, which settled at the base of Loghain’s cock even as he kept up a fairly steady pace.

“What do you need?” he whispered, oscillating his hips as he stroked, pumped, once, twice. Loghain fought to think through the haze in his mind. What had he wanted? What had he needed, more than this man’s hands and eyes on him? The shallow press and emptiness in his ass reminded him, frustrated him, and he shook his head.

“It’s not–” Loghain said, swallowing hard against the dryness of his throat, the way Maric twisted his wrist. “Right. The angle.”

“We’ll get it,” Maric said, using both hands to shift him farther up his thighs and into his lap. Loghain groaned for the loss at his cock, nearly ready to call it quits and take care of himself. Leaning down, Maric planted one hand back in its former spot on the sheets to help his balance, resting the other low on Loghain’s stomach. “I’m close,” he murmured, his hips picking up their patterned rocking for what Loghain rather hoped was the last time. “I want you with me.”

Any thoughts of giving up fled his mind. Wrapping a hand around Maric’s wrist at his belly, he allowed himself a deep breath and the most open expression he could manage. “Always,” he said.

Whatever Maric saw on his face spurred him into action. Groaning long and still too loud, he hung his head and snapped his hips hard, sending a shockwave through Loghain’s body. It still wasn’t perfect, but it was–

“Closer,” Loghain huffed, gripping Maric’s arm tighter, “almost–”

There. That was it.

He valued his control, in all situations, and hadn’t even considered the possibility of losing it, but the sudden pleasure that hit him like lightning nearly forced a cry from his throat. Murmuring blasphemies instead, things that would make any devout chantry-goer beg for repentance, he pushed Maric’s hand towards his cock. The first stroke, given in time with a slide of Maric’s body against his, was enough. Without a chance for a warning, verbal or physical, he spent himself on his own stomach and the hand that dragged inexorably up and down.

“Fuck,” Maric gasped, fisting one hand into the sheets as he continued to move. Through the aftershocks, it was almost as though Loghain could feel nothing at all beyond a white noise of pleasure. Sooner than he wanted, however, he became aware of the death grip that had thankfully moved from his cock to his hip, the rawness that made Maric’s frenzy nearly unbearable. He shifted away instinctively, but moved back at the cut off hiss, “Andraste’s fucking–”

Maric shivered, his mouth flying open. Reaching up with boneless, heavy limbs, Loghain touched the long strands of gold that cascaded around Maric’s face. He nudged into his palm, as if he were trying to hide, hot breath skirting his arm in uneven gasps. Even without these cues, Loghain could feel a pulse inside his body, the unsteady shake as he tried to keep perfectly still. It was over.

Giving in to the weakness he must have been feeling, Maric flopped onto Loghain so heavily they both wheezed. As if in protest to the new angle and lack of space, Maric’s cock slipped from its sheath, making Loghain wince. He felt more than a little disgusting, hyper-aware of the slick, sticky seed that Maric had uncaringly smeared between them. If not for the weight on him and in his bones, pressing him down into his bed, he would have gotten up immediately to care for it.

As it was, he could wait a while longer.

“Fuck,” Maric repeated weakly, muffled by the way his face pressed down into Loghain’s sternum.

“Yes,” Loghain said, head clearing enough that he thought he could properly use sarcasm again. “We did.”

Maric snorted once, twice, nearly ready to burst into hysteria from the high of coming down. He controlled himself, after a moment, but his shoulders still trembled with mirth as he said, “That was awful.” Loghain could have made a smart comment that that was hardly his fault, but he let it go. It was too early to bicker.

Early. Lifting his head, Loghain glanced at the curtains over his window, trying to gauge the light bleeding in. It didn’t look terribly bright, but it was hard to tell. For all he knew, there were already people up and looking for Maric. Besides, the chill in the air was beginning to settle in on his sweat-damp skin, and the sooner he covered up, the better.

“Off,” he said, gently shoving at Maric with one hand. Maric groaned and almost seemed to make himself heavier, spreading his arms along the mattress and letting out a long breath.

“Can’t we just stay?” he asked. Loghain rolled his eyes, ready to deal with an exaggerated amount of whining, but Maric’s gaze met his and held him steady. There was no humor in his expression. He looked frightfully serious, in fact, which set off several alarms in Loghain’s head.

“Stay.” Loghain said it carefully, like holding a poisonous snake in his mouth, waiting for it to bite. Maric turned to rest his cheek on one side of Loghain’s chest, over his heart. He wondered if he could hear the way it still pounded.

“Stay like this. Stay here.” Maric closed his eyes, bringing an arm back in to stroke at Loghain’s side. “Why can’t we?” he asked. The lightness of his tone belied what he really meant, and Loghain knew it. This was no idle complaining, although with the way his heart lurched, he wished it could have been so. Maric wasn’t asking to spend just the day.

They had had this discussion more than once, over the years, and more than once it had ended in an argument. It was laughable, in an infuriating, heartwarming sort of way. There was still so much left of the Maric he’d known as a younger man, the fledgling prince who seriously considered making the elven bard he loved his queen. Loghain could still hear him, clear as if he said it now: _Why not?_ Why not?

Loghain slid his fingers through Maric’s hair and rested at his nape. He could have said anything, brushed him off in any way he chose, but instead, he sighed. “There are a thousand reasons, Maric,” he said quietly. Not least of all, in the blackest parts of his heart, he felt he was little better than Katriel. Perhaps even worse. “You know that.”

Maric hummed. “I do,” he said. Slowly, carrying the hand at his neck with him, he rose to his knees and leaned forward so that his face was level with Loghain’s. “And I would throw them all out the window at your word. You know that.”

Something swelled in Loghain’s chest, pressed into his mouth, threatened to leak out along his tongue in the form of words he could never take back. Swallowing them down, he settled for a nod. The only words that felt safe were ones that he had already heard. “I do.”

Maric smiled. Sweeter than it should have been, he touched his lips to Loghain’s. “One day,” he murmured, pulled just far back enough that Loghain could still feel his breath, “I’ll convince you.”

Loghain huffed, half-amused. “You may at that.” It came out less acerbic than he intended, and more as though he were in awe – an embarrassing difference. He would have to try again.

Maric rose to sit on his haunches over Loghain’s lap, nearly reminiscent of the way this entire mess had begun. There was no heated desire on his face now, however. Only a half smile. “We’ll lock the doors,” he said, drumming his fingers on Loghain’s chest, “and stay abed an entire week while courtiers and advisors weep for the lack of their king.” Loghain snorted, swatting his hands away.

“I doubt your absence would even be noticed.” There, he thought as Maric shook with quiet laughter. He’d gotten it that time.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to tumblr users queenofeden, nonbinarycadash, and frompawntoqueen for their readthroughs and support!


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